Of Tea and Toast
by Oh Moneypenny
Summary: John is sick and Sherlock cares by making some tea and toast. Short little piece. Enjoy.


****So hi. This is my first Sherlock fic, so please be kind. I'm sorry it's so short and badly written.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

**Of Tea and Toast**

John Watson was rarely ill. Yet here he was, confined to 221B Baker Street and spluttering with coughs that made his whole body ache. It had came suddenly, he had went to bed the previous evening feeling tired and his head was a little stuffy but he had thought nothing of it.

When sun trickled through his window the next morning, he could barely crack open his eyes. His nose was blocked and he breathed with short, shallow rasps. His chest ached on every breath and when he tried to stand, it appeared his legs were made of lead. He was just fading back into sleep when a banging at his door woke him.

"John? John! We've got a case!" Sherlock's excited voice drifted through the door as John groaned into his pillow.

"Sherlock," John croaked, "you need to go yourself today."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, cracking the door open a few inches.

"Seems I've been hit by the flu," John muttered, turning in bed to glance at Sherlock. When Sherlock lingered in the doorway, John smiled slightly, "don't you have a case to be getting to, Sherlock?"

"Um… yes. Yes, I do." Sherlock said before nodding and leaving. After a few moments, the flat fell quiet again and John drifted back into sleep.

* * *

John spent the day in a drowsy cycle of painkillers, sleep and resting on the sofa. He watched television mindlessly and curled under blankets. He was mentally steeling himself for Sherlock coming in and being all high because of the case he was working on. He was half expecting a nice severed body part on the work top next to his painkillers and cough medicine.

Instead, Sherlock entered quietly. Surprisingly quietly, even John didn't rouse from his sleepy state as the door slid open. Sherlock crept inside and looked at John on the sofa. He bit his lip as he took in John's sickly appearance and shrugged off his jacket and scarf. He crouched beside John and touched the side of his face gently. "John?" he said quietly.

His eyes fluttered open and he passed the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. "Sherlock?" he croaked softly.

"Are you okay? John? Are you all right?" His voice was a little tight, as if he had been concerned all day.

John nodded minutely and cleared his throat painfully. "How was the case?"

Sherlock sat on the floor beside the sofa, crossing his legs a little awkwardly. "Simple," he smirked. "Murders are so easy, these days."

John gave a little throaty laugh at that and a smile flickered across Sherlock's face. "How do I make you better, John?" he asked, his eyes soft as he tugged John's blanket back over his shoulder.

"It's just a bad cold-" John was cut off as he coughed. "But you could make me a cup of tea, if you want to help.

Sherlock nodded and went to the kitchen; he took two mugs and carefully made tea and as an afterthought, slid a slice of bread into the toaster. He wondered if John had eaten all day and felt his stomach contort in worry in case he hadn't. The toast popped and he spread it with butter, watching it melt appealingly as he cut it in two neat triangles and sliding it onto a plate.

He carefully carried a mug of hot tea and the plate through to John, completely forgetting his own mug, and sat down in front of John again. John glanced at the plate. "You made toast."

"Just as observant as I am sometimes, John," Sherlock said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Now. Eat. Please."

John eased himself up into a more comfortable position and bit into the toast. Sherlock carefully watched him eat every bite before handing him his cup of tea and proceeding to watch him gulp it down.

"Are you feeling better?" Sherlock asked, tipping his head to one side.

"A little," John smiled, "thank you, Sherlock." He gently patted Sherlock's hand. He hadn't expected the consulting detective to care in the slightest about his illness, let alone make him tea and toast and worry about him.

He was surprised when Sherlock turned his hand and interlaced his fingers with John's. He raised his head and their eyes met. They leaned in slightly when John was caught in a fit of wracking coughs. When he sat back, his eyes were watering and Sherlock had a little smile on his face. "Not now…" he murmured, "but soon."

John silently nodded his consent and squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly. Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John's cheek. "Sleep," he whispered. "I'll make you more tea and toast when you wake up."

* * *

Review please?


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